My Little Ballerina
by Shawanda94
Summary: It was the first time he'd seen her car at this dance studio. He could tell by her dancing that something was wrong. Slightly angsty, Tiva pairing, delves into Ziva's past.


**Okay, so this kinda came out of nowhere today. I was looking for something on YouTube, when I found a video of this five-year-old girl doing Russian Ballet. I figured why not, and I clicked on it, and was totally amazed by this little girl, and by the song especially. It makes me sooooo sad that I don't know the name of the song, but the video is on ittiebittiedancer's Channel and it's called "5-year-old Kaylee doing Russian Ballet" and you should listen to the song because it's what inspired me! I was listening and I suddenly found myself writing. If anyone knows what the title of the song is PLEASE tell me! I can't PM, so you'll have to review:) and even if you don't know the title, review anyway ;)**

Tony stepped hesitantly into the darkened studio. It was silent but for the muffled strains of classical music coming from the only lit rehearsal room in the long hall.

"Can I help you?" came a quiet, accented voice suddenly. Tony jumped. He hadn't noticed the small woman next to him.

"I, uh, I was just looking for someone," he evaded.

The old woman smiled. "Ziva?" she asked knowingly.

Tony froze and eyed the lady more carefully. She had clearly been a dancer, and probably a good one. Her accent was Russian, and her dark eyes still glistened merrily, even in the dark. She seemed very friendly, but he knew she could probably be very strict when the situation called for it. "How do you know Ziva?" he asked carefully.

The woman smiled. "This is my studio. You think I don't know who comes and goes? Your friend has been coming here for a very long time."

Tony frowned. This was the first time he'd noticed her car at the dance studio he passed every night on his way home. "Does she come often?"

"She used to come almost every week. This, however, is the first time I've seen her in months. Something is troubling her."

"How can you tell?" Tony asked curiously. Sometimes even he didn't know when something was wrong with her. How did this stranger know with such confidence?

This time she laughed quietly. "I danced for twenty five years, and I've taught others for fifty. I know when a dancer is hurting. It's obvious in the way they move. Besides, she only comes when there's something wrong. She's never tells me what it is, and I leave her be."

Tony glanced down the hall to the lit room. He'd never seen his partner dance, but he was sure she was good. It was Ziva, after all. Imperfection wasn't a word she knew.

"Go," the woman said, startling him again. "I think she could use a friend."

Tony glanced from the woman to the room, debating. He knew it was something private for her, and that she wouldn't want anyone watching, but he was curious, and he needed to know if something was really wrong. He turned back to the woman to ask how long Ziva had been there, but she had vanished, just as silently as she'd appeared. Shrugging, Tony slowly walked down the hall.

There were windows in the room, so he could see her clearly. It only took him a moment to realize what the woman had meant when she'd said the hurt was clear in the way a dancer moved. The song was one he didn't recognize. It was a piano piece that was beautiful and sad and slow, and a perfect reflection of the way Ziva was dancing.

Her movements were slightly desperate, but somehow slow and sad at the same time. There were no dramatic leaps or jumps, but gradual, deliberate actions that somehow managed to take her across the room in the same time a grander maneuver would.

Her mood was also apparent in her clothes. She was clad in a dark leotard that bared her arms and shoulders, revealing all the scars she had gained in her scant twenty-eight years. The skirt was also black, though it was sheer and had a ragged hem. Her hair was pulled back into the tight bun that had become her trademark at crime scenes, and her face was bare of makeup.

The look on her face coupled with the melancholy song made his heart and stomach hurt. They were devastating and beautiful at once.

After a long few minutes, during which Tony stared through the window, captivated by the woman who never ceased to surprise him, the song drew to a close. Ziva slowly sank to the floor in a pose he could never have hoped to imitate, her chest heaving with emotion and exhaustion. Tears streamed down her face, and to his shock, he found that his face was wet as well.

Ziva stayed on the floor for what seemed like a century, before she finally called, "Tony, could you bring me that towel?"

Again, Tony jumped. He hadn't realized she'd known he was here. Wondering how her voice sounded so strong when he still didn't trust his, he did as she asked. He silently sat next to her as she wiped her face and neck. There were a few moments of silence before she started talking.

"I started dancing when I was five. It was something I'd always wanted to do, and I was ecstatic when my father finally agreed. I suspect now that he had ulterior motives, but at the time, I was still so innocent and blind. At his urging, I quit when I was fifteen. I was devastated, though I hid it. I had just learned what it was that my father did. Why he disappeared for days on end. And it was then that I learned that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps.

"I was sixteen the first time I killed a man. His name was Joshua Bar-Lev, and he was a corrupt prison guard who was smuggling information and goods in and out of jail. He even helped a few terrorists break out before anyone caught on. He was not a good man, but he had a family. He was begging me to let him at least say goodbye to his little girl when I shot him. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I thought maybe I could earn my father's love and his appreciation. I was wrong. He simply nodded to me, took the gun and told me that he would be home later."

Tony was suddenly filled with rage at this man who called himself a father, though at the same time he was filled with sorrow for the woman who only wanted to be loved by the man she looked up to so much. While his biggest concerns were finding a date and looking good on the football field, she'd been half a world away struggling with more than he could ever imagine. She stared straight ahead into the mirror as she quietly continued her story.

"I did as he said and went home. I laid in bed, numb, for an hour maybe. I didn't really register anything but the fact that one little girl was never going to see her father again because of me. Then, before I really realized that I was moving, I was halfway to the dance studio downtown. It took me probably an hour and a half to get there on foot, but I didn't care. There was this urge, this need to dance, to prove to myself that there was still good in the world. That I could still make something beautiful, even if my heart was dark.

"I don't know how long I danced. I vaguely remember my old instructor coming in and finding me. She just looked at me for a long moment, and then she told me she would close the studio for that day so I could have the privacy I needed. Later, my sister found me. She too could tell that something was very wrong. She'd begun dancing at the same age I had, and when she saw me there, she didn't say anything, she just joined me. There wasn't any music, but we didn't need any. We had always been in synch with each other. She didn't ask what had happened, she didn't press me to talk, she just let me dance out my feelings. She was only thirteen at the time, and didn't know what our father's job was, but she knew I did. I believe it was that day that she figured out that I had been pulled into whatever it was, and that she probably faced the same fate.

"We danced all through that day. Tali occasionally had to stop to catch her breath, but I couldn't. I knew that if I stopped, everything would fall apart. And eventually, it did. It was late that night when I finally stopped. I told her everything, and she held me as I cried.

"It became an unfortunate routine for me. I did my father's bidding, and I would return to the dance studio. Three years later, Tali was killed. I danced then, too. It was worse, alone, knowing that she would never join me again. After that day, I stopped dancing. But then I came to America, and I once again began to feel the guilt and sorrow when I killed. Running became my outlet, but it wasn't the same. I found this studio one night while I was running. I was drawn to it for some reason. The door was unlocked and I came in. When I got out on the floor again, it all came back. I rediscovered how it made me feel, and I danced for a long time that night. In the morning I shut the door and turned to leave and found myself face to face with the owner."

Tony smiled faintly. Sneaking up on people seemed to be a habit of the old woman's.

"She took me by the hand and asked only my name, and handed over a key to the studio, telling me that I could come whenever I needed to. I rarely see her, but she always knows when I've been here. I haven't needed to do this for a while now though."

Quietly, Tony asked, "Why tonight?"

Ziva flinched, seeming to have forgotten he was there. Softly she said "It is the anniversary of her death. And my first kill, ironically."

Slowly, deliberately, so as not to scare her, Tony reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. To his surprise, she leaned into him, reveling in the feel of his embrace.

A long time passed before either said anything. Finally, Tony told her, "It's been a long day. You should sleep."

Smiling sadly, Ziva replied, "There are dark thoughts waiting to ambush me in my apartment. I need to stay here."

Cautiously, Tony joked, "My apartment's empty of any kind of thought. I could sleep on the couch..."

Ziva looked him in the eye for the first time that night. "No," she replied softly. "I won't make you sleep on the couch. We are mature enough to share."

Smiling, Tony kissed her gently on the forehead. "True. I'll drive. We can pick up your car in the morning."

Ziva nodded in agreement, and grabbed her bag and her CD.

Half an hour later, as she crawled into bed next to him in one of his old T-shirts, she whispered into the dark, "Thank you."

Knowing he should let it go at that, but unable to, Tony asked, "For what?"

"For not asking. For listening... For being there."

Rolling closer to her, he grasped her hand. "I'll always be there," he said, desperately needing her to know.

She squeezed his hand gently and whispered, "I know."

He pulled her close and held her against his chest. "Sleep, my little ballerina."

And, with a smile, she did.


End file.
